


A Little Christmas Miracle of their Own

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1843, Christmas Fluff, Dickensian London, Even though it's December 23rd, Fluff, Historical, Improvised Christmas dinner, M/M, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Snow, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: London is a terrible place to be in wintertime, but spending time with loved ones seems to help the humans get through it. Maybe Aziraphale and Crowley ought to try it. Neither of them has ever had a real Christmas before.





	A Little Christmas Miracle of their Own

Aziraphale lingered inside the bookshop for as long as he could before stepping back into the cold, but the time eventually came when he had finished his purchase, fumbled with his gloves for as long as was believable, and had to open the door. He screwed up his face against the blast of frozen air and pressed his arms more tightly to his sides. The book he’d purchased weighed down one side of his overcoat a bit crookedly, but he didn’t dare take his hands out of his pockets to adjust it.

Out in the country, where he’d been for the past few months, winter could be beautiful. The snow carpeted the world with a white so pure it was only rivaled by heaven itself. To step outside after a nighttime snowfall was nothing short of magical, looking down at the fresh white blanket outside one’s doorstep and being the first to break the thin crust and tamp it down. When the sun came out, the sky turned a brilliant blue above a sea of perfect white, dotted with trees that the ice had turned into works of crystalline art.

But Aziraphale had to come back to London, and winter here was a different story. The air was so filthy that the snow was already grey when it reached the ground, and then it would melt underfoot and re-freeze into treacherous pathways of ice just waiting to flip you onto your backside. Everyone wrapped themselves up so tightly as to be strangers even from their own families, and shoved past anyone in their way to reach warmth again as fast as possible. Aziraphale wrapped his coat tighter and wondered if it was worthwhile to call a cab carriage for the handful of blocks between himself and the bookshop.

“Oi, angel!”

Aziraphale whirled around. It was difficult to spot Crowley in the sea of black coats and hats, but that voice was unmistakable. He recognized his friend by the dark glasses wading towards him. “Ah! Crowley,” he said, breaking into a smile.

Crowley nodded towards the door Aziraphale had just come out of. “Did I just see you coming out of someone else’s bookshop? Don’t you have one of those yourself?”

“I was shopping,” said Aziraphale. “Dickens has a new story out for Christmastime. I’ve heard it’s very good.”

“Ah, is that the Christmas ghost story?” Crowley tilted his head. “How does that work?”

“I’ll let you know once I read it,” said Aziraphale. “Where are you headed?”

“Oh, you know me.” He sighed, looking around at the crowd of anonymous black coats and hats. “Off to spread disorder and malcontent in this most joyous season. It’s a busy time of year.”

“That it certainly is.”

The Christmas season was always hectic for both of them. With emotions running high, it was easier than usual to tip souls to the side of greed or generosity, which made it prime time for both of them to work. The change didn’t often stick, but that didn’t much bother Crowley and Aziraphale, as long as they both had something to report back to head office.

Something cold touched Aziraphale’s cheek, and he looked up. Ash-grey flakes were falling around them. Crowley grimaced up at them and folded his arms around himself. “Speaking of, I probably shouldn’t stay and chat. It’s too bloody cold out, and I’ve got a few more temptations to finish up tonight.”

Aziraphale let out a tiny sigh. “Can’t they wait?”

Crowley, who was already turning to walk away, looked back at him in surprise, missed a step on the ice and nearly went sliding off his feet. “What?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what made him say it. Maybe it was the cold, or the Christmas spirit, or the sight of his best friend after months away from home. The humans always said that nobody should be alone on Christmas, and both he and Crowley had been for every year since the holiday was established. It would have been nice, just once, to spend it with someone he cared about. “You could come warm up back at the bookshop,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of tea and cocoa, or wine if you’d prefer that. One of my neighbors dropped off a fruitcake the other day, and I’m sure I won’t be able to finish it all by myself. It—it’s—” he fiddled with his hands, his eyes shooting off somewhere in the crowd as if Gabriel was about to come out of nowhere and accuse him of fraternizing. “It’s the night before Christmas eve,” he got out at last. “We’ll both be so busy tomorrow and the day after. We could…I don’t know. Celebrate it early together.” His voice dropped as he kept talking. Hearing it out loud made it sound foolish. The very idea of an angel and a demon celebrating a human holiday. It was silly to suggest it.

The snow, which had started out grey, was turning lighter and cleaner by the second. It dusted Crowley’s shoulders and the brim of his top hat like powdered sugar. “Yeah, okay,” he said quietly after a moment. “I guess I could push off work until tomorrow.”

Aziraphale beamed, relieved. They fell into step beside each other, and Aziraphale once again contemplated taking a cab, but the snow, now pure white, swirled so beautifully through the air, and he felt a little warmer with Crowley there next to him, the sleeves of their overcoats brushing against each other as they walked.

“Heard you spent some time in the country,” said Crowley. “How was that?”

“Oh, lovely,” said Aziraphale. “Though I did miss the bookshop. I just needed a break from the city, for a while, you know.”

“Oh, I get that.” Crowley drew a breath—not too deep, so he didn’t inhale too much soot—and let it out slowly. “It’s a good thing you’re back, though. London could use a bit more divine intervention.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him. “Has it been bad?”

“Worse every year.”

Aziraphale turned back to the street, fretting. Living conditions in London had really gone down the drain since industrialization. Winters were hard on both of them, but especially on Crowley. He could never stand to see children suffer. Aziraphale knew how much it pained him every time he passed the workhouses where children slaved away in squalid conditions to pay off their parents’ debts, or the tiny chimney sweeps who, if they didn’t die early of asphyxiation or burns or cancer, would grow up with permanently stunted skeletons. Aziraphale, at least, could do something to help them. Crowley had to sit back and report these horrors back to hell as overwhelming successes. Well, that was all he was supposed to do. If Aziraphale had caught glimpses of him once or twice kneeling over a sick boy in an alley, or heard news of yet another master sweep found floating in the Thames, he didn’t mention it. Crowley never liked it when Aziraphale called attention to his better qualities.

“Too bloody cold,” Crowley muttered, burying his chin in his scarf. “Why’d they have to put this holiday in the middle of winter? It’s not even his real birthday.”

“True,” said Aziraphale. “But the humans have to do something to make the winter a little brighter.”

Crowley pursed his lips thoughtfully. “When you put it like that.”

The ice thankfully gave way to slush, so Aziraphale could safely lift his eyes from his feet to watch the snow coming down. You could never see the stars in the city nowadays, but he could almost imagine them in the white flecks of snow. “The sky was so clear in the country,” he said quietly. “There were so many stars. You could see all the way to the end of the universe.”

“I doubt that,” said Crowley, who had also looked up at the sky. “So much for the Christmas Star, mm? The wise kings would never have found Bethlehem if they started here.”

“I expect the Channel might have given them a bit of trouble as well,” said Aziraphale dryly.

Crowley chuckled. “Jesus himself made the trip, if some poets are to be believed. ‘And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England’s mountains green?’”

“Oh, please.” Aziraphale scoffed. “The very idea.”

“Well, I did show him all the kingdoms of the world,” said Crowley. “Though the British Isles didn’t really make the list at the time. Just a couple of clans at war with Rome on some dreary little island. Didn’t think he’d be that interested.”

“It’s not that dreary.”

“It is in the winter.” Crowley looked around at the buildings that loomed dark around them in the gloom. “And year-round, in London. I’m really starting to hate this city.”

“It can be dreadful.” And, in his line of work, Crowley ended up spending a great deal of time in some of the worst parts. “I could handle some of the temptations instead,” Aziraphale offered. “Swap you for a few blessings.

Crowley shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t want that. And neither do I.”

They reached the bookshop, and Aziraphale miracled open the door so as not to make Crowley wait any longer in the cold. “I’ll just get the stove going,” he said, shutting the door behind them and snapping his fingers. Somewhere in the back room, the coals in the stove blazed to life, and the glass-enclosed candles he had placed meticulously around the shop twinkled into flame.

Crowley blinked around at the bookshop in amazement as he shrugged off his coat. Every bookshelf was trimmed with holly and pine. A wreath hung on the door to the back room, as well as on both sides of the front door and on every window, and in the corner beside the desk there stood a prodigious Christmas tree, glittering with silver bells and gold stars. “Hells, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, handing his coat on the rack and setting his hat on the hook beside it. “Do you do this every year?”

“Possibly,” Aziraphale muttered. “It brings a bit of cheer to the customers. Brightens up their day a little.”

That didn’t explain why the back room was also decorated, complete with a second, slightly smaller tree, this one dotted with a mismatch of baubles and fruits in all colors and shapes. “This is fantastic,” said Crowley, laughing, craning to look at the angel at the top. “Your angel’s missing a halo, though.”

“I took it off,” said Aziraphale, setting his new book on the table. “You know we don’t really have those. Artists invented them.”

“Yeah, but how else can you know for sure that it’s not one of our lot? Here, let me help you with that.” Crowley snapped his fingers.

“Nobody will think I’ve put a demon on my tree,” said Aziraphale, looking suspiciously up at Crowley’s handiwork. He didn’t seem to have added a halo. When Aziraphale squinted, he could see that the angel’s face now bore an uncanny resemblance to his own. “For heaven’s sake, Crowley,” he said, waving a hand to revert it back and trying not to laugh.

“Now,” said Crowley, arranging himself carelessly across the sofa. “I believe I was promised a warm drink?”

“I was just about to mention it.” Aziraphale put his hand on the knob of the door that usually opened into a closet, unless he decided he wanted it to be a kitchen instead. “What will you have, cocoa, tea? I might even be able to drum up some mulled wine, if you don’t mind waiting for it to simmer.”

“Oh, absolutely, yes,” said Crowley. “I was hoping to stay awhile, anyway.”

Aziraphale made himself busy rummaging around the kitchen to find all the right spices. He had to pluck a decorative orange from the tree and turn a few cloves into cinnamon sticks, but soon the pot was bubbling happily away on the stove. He returned to the back room with three-quarters of a fruitcake on a platter in one hand and a knife and two plates and forks in the other. “It’s hardly a Christmas feast, I suppose,” he said apologetically, setting everything on the little table.

Crowley snorted. “What do you think I expected? Roasted goose and plum pudding?”

There was a mental image: Crowley carving the goose while Aziraphale fussed about with potatoes and cranberry pies, sitting down to what should rightfully have been three separate meals instead of just one, the bookshop filling with the smell of sage and onions… “That is what’s traditional,” said Aziraphale, half-wishing they had planned something ahead of time, half-knowing that there was a good reason they didn’t.

“Ah yes, the traditional December 23rd dinner,” said Crowley, nodding. “Christmas eve-eve.”

They both looked down at the fruitcake for a moment. “I’ve never actually had a proper Christmas dinner,” Aziraphale admitted.

“What! You?” Crowley exclaimed. “They don’t invite you round? Then what’s even the point of knowing all your neighbors?”

“Well, friendliness, for one,” said Aziraphale. He gestured at the fruitcake. “And a few more material benefits.”

Crowley rested his chin on his hand for a moment, then lazily snapped his fingers. The three-quarters of a fruitcake turned into three-quarters of a pudding. “I’m not actually sure what they’re supposed to taste like,” he said, while Aziraphale was busy staring in astonishment. “So, y’know. Hopefully it’s alright.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, still staring. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” said Crowley. “Someone told me that’s what’s traditional.”

“As I recall you pointing out only moments ago, it’s December 23rd.”

Crowley made an inarticulate noise. “Christmas.”

“Well, then,” said Aziraphale, “Merry Christmas.” He turned the knife into a spoon and scooped a generous helping of the pudding onto his plate. It tasted a bit like trifle, and a bit like chocolate, and a bit like all of Aziraphale’s other favorite desserts. He smiled down at it, his heart swelling. “It’s not a whit like plum pudding,” he told Crowley. “But it’s very good.”

Crowley made another inarticulate noise and squirmed a little to change positions on the couch. “I flipped through this a bit while you were busy with the spices,” he said, picking up the new book from the table. “D’you know it’s illustrated?”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, look at this.” He thumbed through the pages and showed Aziraphale a picture of a ghost trailing heavy chains approaching an old man in a nightcap. “Are you quite sure this is a Christmas story?”

“It says ‘Christmas’ right there in the title.”

Crowley flipped back to the cover. “I guess, yeah. Still seems a bit too spooky. Oh, and listen to this.” He turned to the first page. “‘Marley was dead, to begin with.’ How’s that for an opening line?”

“Gripping,” Aziraphale agreed. “And how many different ways does Dickens manage to rephrase the same idea?”

Crowley grinned as he skimmed the page. “Two more just in that paragraph. Oh, here he says ‘dead as a doornail,’ and then asks what is so particularly dead about a doornail, and whether a coffin-nail might not be more apt. We get it, Charlie. You were paid by the word.”

“He’s never been exactly subtle about that,” said Aziraphale. “Honestly, it’s impressive he can stretch things out as long as he does, and I’ll still want to read it.”

“Oh, oh.” Crowley sat up straighter, and read, “‘He was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner.’” As he read, he held up a finger for each new adjective. “That’s six. I’m just surprised he didn’t manage to squeeze in a couple _more_ synonyms.”

“Good lord,” said Aziraphale. “I thought Scrooge was meant to be the protagonist.”

“Not at the start, clearly.” Crowley flipped through a couple more pages and cringed. “The descriptions only get worse. I don’t want to spoil too much, but he does not come out on the favorable side of a comparison to harsh winter rainstorms.”

“Oh, dear.”

Crowley shut the book and laid it back on the table. “You’ll have to tell me how it turns out. Ten pounds say the ghosts drag him downstairs by the end.”

“I don’t think it’s that sort of story,” said Aziraphale, glancing from the book to Crowley. He didn’t usually take this much interest in books, though Aziraphale had known him to enjoy Dickens’ other works. “Why don’t you borrow it?” he suggested. “You could bring it back after Christmas.”

“I think I know better than to get between you and one of your books, Aziraphale.”

“It’s not as if I’ll have the time to read it in the next few days. I insist.”

“Oh, well if you _insist_,” said Crowley sarcastically, but he took the book and set it beside him on the couch. “I’m just curious as to how a book with such a hateful main character and several ghosts can still manage to be reviewed as a heartwarming Christmas tale.”

“You’ll have to read it and find out.” The pudding on Aziraphale’s plate had disappeared, and he served himself some more. “Won’t you have some?” he asked, brandishing the spoon.

“Oh, all right.”

Knowing that Crowley was only humoring him, Aziraphale served him a smaller portion. “And I’ll bet the wine is done,” he said, getting to his feet and going to the kitchen to check on it. He came back and set two piping hot mugs on the table.

“Oh, thank Satan,” said Crowley, taking his. “Alright, and you,” he added at Aziraphale’s look of reproach. “Whoever thought of hot wine was a genius.”

Aziraphale glanced at him and wondered whether he remembered. He had been very drunk at the time. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, which was true regardless of whether or not Crowley was aware of the complement. “Really takes the edge off of the cold.”

“In two ways,” said Crowley, taking a far bigger drink of the wine than should have been advisable, considering its temperature. “Antichrist, I hate the cold. You know who’s got the right idea about winter? Bears. They just sleep through the whole thing.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale sipped the wine more carefully than Crowley had. Perhaps his friend needed a holiday as well. The country had been just as cold, if not colder, but it was much more bearable when he could look out his frosted window and see a world turned to diamonds. It would be difficult, however, for Crowley to explain to his demonic superiors why he had left filthy, wretched London for someplace less evil. Aziraphale had been lucky that Gabriel hadn’t checked his reports too closely.

“There are redeeming factors, though, surely,” said Aziraphale. “The humans come up with some nice ways of celebrating the winter holidays. There’s cookies, and songs. And,” he added, raising a mug, “hot spiced wine.”

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “Blasted angel. You can’t just let me sulk, can you?”

“Certainly not,” said Aziraphale. “I won’t have you in a foul mood. Not on Christmas eve-eve.”

Crowley took another sip of the wine, but not before Aziraphale noticed the smile creeping around the edges of his mouth. “That won’t be a problem while you’re here.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say to that. His heart thumped too loudly, and he sensed they were in dangerous territory. It wasn’t the first time, but before it had always been after one bottle too many of wine or scotch, and they had barely started drinking just now. Something about the time of year must be going to both their heads and making them giddy. Instinctively, Aziraphale felt around in his head for some excuse to cut things short before either of them said something they regretted, but he couldn’t exactly turn Crowley out into the cold, especially not when the night had barely started.

Distant music drifted in from the street and caught his attention. “Oh! Carolers,” he said, grateful for the distraction. “Isn’t that nice?”

Crowley set down his mug, listening to the muffled strains of “Oh Holy Night.” “Why’d they pick that one? The stars aren’t ‘brightly shining’ here.”

Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look and got to his feet. “Excuse me for a moment.” Going into the kitchen, he filled four mugs with milk and waved a hand over them to turn them into piping hot cocoa. Crowley held the door for him as he went back into the bookshop’s front room, wrapped himself up in all his layers again, and walked outside with two mug handles clutched in each hand. “That was splendid,” he said with a smile, approaching the carolers, who had just finished their song. “Here, I’m sure you could use something hot to drink.”

They circled Aziraphale gratefully, taking the mugs and passing them back to the rest of the group. “God bless you, sir,” said one woman.

Aziraphale chuckled a bit at the irony. “Now, if you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll bring more—Oh.” He turned and nearly bumped into Crowley behind him.

The demon stepped back, and a bit of the cocoa in his hands sloshed onto his shoes. “Oi, careful there, angel.”

“Crow—Anthony,” he corrected for the benefit of the humans. “Thank you.” He took the mugs one from Crowley one at a time and handed them off to the carolers. “Is that everyone?” he asked, counting the well-bundled heads.

“Aye, indeed,” said the woman. “A penny for the song? It’s for charity.”

“Naturally.” Aziraphale dropped a generous amount into the basket she held out. “Do try to stay warm. Merry Christmas.”

“And to you, kind sirs.”

Aziraphale smiled and waved after them as they moved on down the street. When he turned to go back, Crowley was watching him. The snow was still falling around them, pure and white in a way that could only be called miraculous. Aziraphale cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. “Oh,” he breathed. “Look.”

Crowley followed his gaze, then pulled his glasses down to peer over them in wonder. “Well, fancy that.”

A window had opened up in the thick black clouds that blanketed London, and a single white star shone through. Aziraphale craned his neck back to see, and for a moment the city seemed to disappear around him. He was in the middle of a dark and glassy sea, snowflakes swirling dizzyingly around him, and that one star glimmered above like a lighthouse beacon. He forgot to breathe.

“It’s a real Christmas eve-eve miracle,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale lowered his gaze to look at him, and stopped. “Crowley, you’ve forgotten your coat.”

“Oh—yeah,” he admitted, looking down. “I didn’t want to set down the cocoa.”

“Get back inside, you fool.” Aziraphale ushered him back towards the bookshop. “You’ll catch cold.”

“I won’t,” Crowley argued, but he went anyway. He slouched by the bookshelf as Aziraphale shed his extra layers. “Were you actually there?” Crowley asked, when Aziraphale finally hung his hat and scarf and they walked back to the back room. “At the first one, I mean.”

“Me? No.” Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m not nearly important enough. I heard some about it from Gabriel, though.”

Crowley winced. “Gabriel’s not exactly the sort of person you want at a birth.”

“Definitely not,” said Aziraphale. “That poor girl. Why do you ask?”

Crowley shrugged. “I was wondering how much the carols got right.”

“Oh, well, let me tell you. ‘Silent night’? Not with all those animals there, it wasn’t. More wine?”

“You need to ask?” said Crowley, picking up his mug as well as Aziraphale’s. “You sit down. I’ll get it.” He opened the kitchen door to find that it had turned back into a closet. “Oh, bugger. Aziraphale?”

“Close and open it again,” said Aziraphale, settling into his chair. “I’ll fix it this time.”

Crowley found the kitchen on the second try and returned with both their mugs topped off and steaming. He was so much more relaxed than when Aziraphale had first seen him in the street. Not the forced relaxation he always tried so hard to project, but real ease. He smiled more openly, joked more easily, and even his slouch had lost its aggressive edge. It was such a treat to see him like this. Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he had looked so content.

“What’re you smiling at?” asked Crowley, melding again with the couch.

“Ah—” Aziraphale stopped himself. “I was thinking of a toast,” he improvised. “To food and cheer, and good company.”

Crowley raised his mug and smiled. “To…making the winter a little brighter.”

“Oh, that’s much better than mine.” Beaming, Aziraphale brought up his mug to tap Crowley’s. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, angel.”

A week after the whirlwind that was Christmas day, there came a knock on the door of the bookshop after Aziraphale had retired for the evening. “We’re closed,” he called from the back room without looking up from his book. “Come back tomorrow, please.”

“Yeah, I could,” Crowley called through the door. “Only, I’ve got this book to return—”

He was interrupted by Aziraphale opening the door. “Oh,” he said. “Good, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to carry it all the way back here again.” He held out Aziraphale’s copy of _A Christmas Carol._

“I’d nearly forgotten,” said Aziraphale. “How did you like it?”

“It was—it was—ah.” Even with his eyes hidden, Aziraphale could tell Crowley was avoiding looking at him. His voice tensed a little with emotion. “You’ll like it,” he finished.

That was what Crowley said when he didn’t want to admit to having enjoyed something. After a moment’s thought, Aziraphale set both hands on the top edge of the book and pushed it back towards Crowley. “Keep it.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I said keep it,” he repeated. “Consider it a Christmas gift.”

“But we’ve never—” Crowley stuttered. “I mean, I don’t—”

“Anyway, I’ve already got another copy,” Aziraphale admitted. “After the holiday rush died down, I was quite eager to read it.”

“O-oh.” Crowley drew a deep breath. “Should’ve brought it back sooner, I guess. Sorry about that. Well, as long as you’ve got an extra copy.” He folded the book back under his arm. “I could take it off your hands, sure.”

They both stood there for a moment. “Would, er, would you like to come inside?” asked Aziraphale.

Crowley looked like he was considering it for a moment, then shook his head. “Shouldn’t. I’m a bit behind on work. Lost a lot of time reading, and then there was the, ah.” He waved a hand vaguely rather than finish the sentence.

Aziraphale nodded. They had, perhaps, gotten a little careless recently. That early Christmas party, while lovely at the time, was not something they should repeat. “Yes, of course.”

Crowley nodded. “I’ll see you around.”

“Oh, wait a moment,” said Aziraphale. “Could I see that book?”

“Uh…sure.” Crowley handed it to him.

“Just wait here, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Aziraphale dashed back inside, leafing through the pages. As he had read, there was one line in particular that stuck with him, and he was determined Crowley ought to notice it. “Ah.” Finding the line he wanted, he snatched up his pen and underlined. Miracling the ink dry, he shut the book and returned to the door. “There you are,” he said to a bewildered-looking Crowley. “Well, take care of yourself.”

“You too,” said Crowley, tipping his hat. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

“I always try.”

“Try harder, then. So long.”

Aziraphale shut the door and returned to his book. Even the few minutes when he’d had the door open had chilled the bookshop. He put the kettle on for tea to have something to warm his hands on. They were shaking just a little.

He realized a moment later that it wasn’t from the cold.

“Oh, dear.” Perhaps he ought not to have made the note in the book. At best it was foolish, and at worst it was blasphemy. He wasn’t sure what made him so nervous. Nobody would ever see it except Crowley. Well, it was too late now. What was done was done. Hopefully, Crowley would find and appreciate the message.

Back at his flat, Crowley flipped frantically through the pages to find out what Aziraphale had done to the book. None of the illustrations had changed, and he didn’t seem to have written anything in the front cover or in the margins. Crowley worried that it was a subtler difference, like changing the printed words on the page, and that he’d have to buy another copy and check them against each other. Surely that wasn’t it. The angel hadn’t really tried to hide whatever he was doing, and he must have known Crowley would look for it. But he had flipped through once already, and was about to finish his second and more thorough pass, and he had found nothing noticeable.

His heart lurched as he reached the last page and saw a single stroke of ink near the very last line. He leaned closer to read, then let out a yelp and pressed a hand to his mouth. Tears sprang in his eyes.

_"And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one!"_


End file.
